


Heartlines

by scrapbullet



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Things aren’t always as they seem, Erik.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartlines

Initially, Charles Xavier strikes him as pampered. It’s not an inaccurate assumption to make, when taking into account the nuances that suggest as such; his clothing, his bearing, the accent as smooth as honey. Taking all of that into consideration the first logical thought is blue blood, old money, wealth going back decades if not more, and Erik balks.

It’s the kind of company he cons, if the need arises, not make idle chit-chat with.

And yet; they’re kin. The same and yet not, and curiosity is what makes him stay.

The body, the mind, the _man_ , is so utterly unassuming, that if Erik were to concentrate he’d be able to hear it, sotto voce, _calm- calm- there’s nothing to fear- not from me- avert your eyes and carry on, my friend-_ and he snorts, because what is Charles hiding, really? What secrets could possibly be orbiting his mind?

Erik doesn’t like surprises.

Charles is calm, though there is a tremble to his frame that belies nervousness; a faint tick to his fingers as he fights the urge to fidget. Beneath it all, is the din, and Erik assumes Charles is projecting because he can hear it, a low and distinct murmur like an itch, like he wants to scratch at his head until it bleeds-

“You’re quite astute,” Charles comments. He picks up a bishop, and balances it on his knee. “Not many can hear it. Or rather, I don’t let them.”

Erik cocks a brow, feigning interest.

Charles, of course, takes the bait. “Your mind is open to me, when it should be shuttered. I can teach you how to shield yourself, if you like-”

 _and what is unspoken, that his mind is drawn to Erik’s like a moth to the flame, enamoured of the light, the heat-_

the bishop falls. Neither of them pick it up.

There is a pressure at the base of Erik’s skull, dull and insistent. It thrums when Charles closes his eyes, crescendo’s when Charles tightens his hands around his knees, clutching them so hard the knuckles are white. Erik grimaces, copper on his tongue, and he only realises he’s been holding his breath when it heaves out of him, as the pressure eases and he can feel again.

The noise, the clamour; it’s maddening.

“I don’t know how you cope,” Erik murmurs, finally.

Charles hums, bites his lip. He looks guilty, but it’s the kind of self-sacrificing guilt that makes the ire in Erik’s chest flare. Before he knows what he’s doing he’s reaching across the chess board and grasping Charles’ hand, cold to the touch, and brings it to his lips.

 _Perhaps I was wrong_ , his mind concedes, and Charles eases, _perhaps I was wrong about you_.

“Things aren’t always as they seem, Erik.” Charles gently removes his hand, flustered.

The moment passes.


End file.
